


Blurred Lines

by The_White_Rabbit42



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Implied Smut, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-06 04:59:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19055707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_White_Rabbit42/pseuds/The_White_Rabbit42
Summary: Lines can't be crossed if they're too blurry to see.





	Blurred Lines

**Author's Note:**

> Another drabble request for the following prompts: Loki, poison, purple.
> 
> Want to know when I'm taking requests? Follow me on tumblr: @thewhiterabbit42

“It’s poison.”  

 

That cold timbre you’re used to doesn’t sound as distant.  If you didn’t know better, you’d almost swear there was concern tempering frosted tones and hard chips of amber.  But you know better. Tricksters cannot be trusted, never fully if at all. 

 

“Are you certain?”

 

It doesn’t feel like any poison you’re aware of.  Everything screams of magic, from the intense prickling in your veins to the unnatural hum vibrating though your cells.  

 

Pain ripples through your body, lancing straight into your being, your irises flashing once more with tainted purple hues.  Then there’s  _ that _ .  You’d think that would be his sign that there’s a little more going on.   

 

Then again you’re just the simple human caught within the  _ highly _ important squabbles of gods. 

 

Your muscles seize, this round of cramping more intense than the last.  It almost sends you to your knees, and the only thing that prevents you from hitting fine, marbled tile is a set of immovable hands.  

 

The discomfort becomes blinding, your eyes clenching shut almost as tight as your jaw as you fight to keep from sinking beneath it. 

 

When you finally come out the other side, you find yourself on the floor sitting between his legs.  He has his back against expensive leather, and you briefly wonder why he picked unyielding stone over the couch he’s leaning on.  It feels nice, however, the coolness seeping through your clothes and taking the edge off a simmering heat quickly flourishing into an inferno.  

 

“It’s not the kind meant for you,” he clarifies.  

 

You brace your palms against the floor, knowing you should move, but his arms fold around you like a prison, caging you in place.  You’re afraid to turn and look at him, knowing the moment you do you’ll drown. You’re too close to golden waters to ever hope of making it back out again should you fall straight into them.  

 

You swallow, voice noticeably quieter.  “So how do I get rid of it?”

 

There’s a moment of silence so heavy when you take a breath you feel it settle deep within your lungs.

 

He reaches up, tucking your hair behind your ear for his fingers trace down along the contour of your jaw.   “You stop fighting me.”

 

You snort.  Sometimes he’s clever.  Sometimes, he just  _ thinks  _ he is.  

 

If there’s anything he is, however, it’s very, very persistent.  

 

“You expect me to believe this is some sort of sex spell?”

 

You should be angry, in the least irritated that he won’t let this go.  You don’t know how many ways you can tell him (or how many languages you can learn the word  _ no  _ in).  It’s not that you aren’t interested, but you know nothing good can come from wanting anyone who’s spouse could erase you from existence in the blink of an eye.  

 

Except she’s the type of being who’d do it one atom at a time.  

 

“I expect you to know my wife will do whatever she thinks will destroy my happiness and keep me chained to her.” 

 

His touch lands on your shoulder, running down along your arm and you shudder, mostly because you know he’s  _ right _ .  Sigyn would do anything to keep her claws in him, including slip him something that made him think he still desires, wants,  _ needs  _ her, and he might die if he can’t have her.

 

The rest of you knows he would do anything to wet his own appetites.

 

He leans forward, breath stirring against your hair and you tense at the unusual rasp to his voice.  

 

“I know you can feel it.”  

 

That hand of his continues to your elbow, and you tense as bold fingers sneak down to your waist.  

 

“Burning through your body.  Igniting cell after cell after cell…”

 

He’s never been this forward, despite having a reputation as a god who doesn’t ask, but takes.  It’s always been calculated lines and eroding resistance as he pushes and pushes until you finally give him an inch. 

 

There’s no conceding now, only acquisition as fingertips dance along the hem of your shirt. 

 

“It won’t take long to engulf your system.  An hour, two at the most, before you’ll experience the most horrible agony you’ll ever know until it becomes too intense for your body and mind to endure, and you’ll either go insane or simply die from the shock of it.”

 

There’s usually a kernel of truth to his words.  Whether it’s the  _ most horrible agony  _ or  _ death _ part, you don’t particularly care.  You just know you have no intention of finding out just how much of a liar he is or isn’t this evening, because you  _ do  _ feel it, and it’s starting to burn in ways that have nothing to do with pleasure.  

 

You finally look up at him, and the moment you do a new spell washes over you.  

 

“Do what you need to.”

 

A predatory smile snakes across his lips, and you can’t help but wonder how innocent he really is as he pushes you down onto the floor.  


End file.
